The Valeditztorian (24 page)

“My parents were born in Argentina, and I was born here
.”

“But that shouldn’t make any difference
. I mean, you’re their daughter, so you should still look like them, right?”

“I
n the summertime, my mom makes me use a lot of sun block. I burn easily, so she slathers that disgusting stuff all over me. Yuck.”

Since I’m no
t getting anywhere, I attempt to ask the question more directly.

“Aimee, is there a re
ason why you don’t look anything like your parents?”

She
laughs.

“Oh, t
hat’s an easy one. I was adopted.”

“I see
.”

In truth
I’m not sure what to make of this new piece of information. Maybe the fact that she was adopted has something to do with Aimee’s mental health issues. During my pediatrics rotation, I encountered a number of adopted children with psychological problems.

The
adoptive parents would always make comments like, “We’re not really sure, but we think her biological mother was a schizophrenic,” or “We heard the father committed suicide, but we don’t know any details.”

Ai
mee grabs a whipped cream-covered Oreo and says, “My mom’s always saying that it’s a good thing I’m not biologically related to my dad.”

“Why’s that
?”

“Because my d
ad is sick.”

I lick some sticky
-sweet marshmallow sauce off my spoon.

“What’s the matter
with him?”

Aimee takes a big bite of ice cream, then suddenly flexes her neck, grabbing her temples.

“Ow!” she shouts.

“What’s wrong?”
I ask.

“Brain freeze,” she says with her eyes shut tight
.

“Ooh…
I hate that.”

I wait a few moments for her to recover
.

“So what’s the matter with
your dad?” I ask again.

The child
looks up at me with a world of sadness in her eyes.

“This whole year, h
e’s been really sick. I keep asking my parents to tell me what’s wrong, but they won’t. I think he might be dying.”

“Oh, Aimee
. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

I’m at a loss for
what to say next. Other than family pets, no one close to me has died. In fifth grade, I had a goldfish that died while I was away at summer camp. Although my parents secretly replaced it, thinking I wouldn’t notice, I immediately discovered the ruse once I got home. In the aftermath, I was so furious at them for not telling me the truth that I wouldn’t speak to them for days. So much drama over one little goldfish. I can’t begin to imagine the emotional challenges of Aimee’s situation.

To fill the silence I take a sip of water.

Though I hadn’t planned on doing psychological counseling when I took this job, I’m beginning to sense that in order to get Aimee back on track with her schoolwork, I’ll need to better understand her family situation.

“Aimee,” I say, “I’ve been to your house twice now, and I’ve never seen your parents
. Where are they?”

“My d
ad’s been stuck at the hospital for the past month, and now my Mom’s spending all of her time there, too.”

“D
o you have any other family members in the city who can help out?”

“I have some cousins in Texas, but nobody else lives
around here.”

“Is that why you’re always home
with Maria?”

“Yeah
,” she says dejectedly. “I’m stuck at home with her, and all she ever does is clean our apartment. She never takes me anywhere.”

“That s
ounds pretty lonely.”

Aimee nods
in agreement.

“My m
om used to bring me to the hospital,” she says, “but now she won’t let me go there.”

As the remainder of my sundae melts, Aimee’s school problems begin to make sense
. With both of her parents practically living at the hospital, she must be desperate for attention, either positive or negative.

This gives me an idea
.

“Do you know where your d
ad is admitted?” I ask.

“What’s ‘admitted?
’”

I clarify, “Which hospital is he staying at?”

“Memorial Sloan-Kettering.”

“Would you like to
go visit him?” I say.

Aimee’s eyes go wide as saucers, and I immediately regret my offer
. Obviously, I have no authority here, yet something about this particular course of action feels unavoidable. From the standpoint of motivating Aimee, I’m finally visualizing a key bargaining chip, one that’s going to be much more effective than candy or ice cream sundaes.

“Can you take me there?” she asks.

I nod.

“Y
ou should know, Aimee, that being a tutor isn’t my only job. I’m also a medical student. My hospital identification badge will get us past security at Memorial, but at the moment we don’t even need it. It’s almost noon, right in the middle of visiting hours. This is the perfect time to go.”

Aimee practically jumps out of her seat
.

“Well
, let’s get going!”

“
Not so fast, kiddo. Hold on there, for just one second.”

I stand and
meet her gaze.

“We’re not going anywhere until you finish your math worksheet
.”

I pull the folded paper out of my jacket pocket.

“From here on out, I want your solemn promise that you’re going to finish all your schoolwork.”

“I promise,”
she says, and this time I hear the truth in her voice.

Aimee sits back down, grabs the sharpened pencil I hand her, and rapidly polishes off the remaining problem
s. I don’t bother checking the answers, since I’m sure they’re all correct, down to the last decimal place.

Chapter Fifteen

Memorial
and Metaphysics

Minutes later the child is pulling my arm out of its socket, dragging me up York Avenue. As we weave in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions with automobiles, pedestrians, and dogs, I try not to have a heart attack.

“Sor
ry,” I shout over my shoulder to an old woman pushing a grocery cart whom we nearly mow down.

I yell at Aimee’s back, “You won’t be spending much time with your father
if you get us—or someone else—killed on our way to the hospital.”

Like a typical New York
City cab driver, the child completely ignores me.

Pausing at
Memorial’s main entrance, I flash my ID, just in case. When the security guard nods, Aimee dashes ahead to the elevator. Clearly she knows where she’s going. In fact, after the elevator dings on the fifth floor, I’m the one who’s lost. This ward is new to me, and I need to move quickly to keep up with my charge.

Not that I’m thrilled to follow her
. Of all the hospitals I’ve ever visited or worked in, Memorial is my least favorite. A pall of sadness and gloom seems to hang in the air, warning visitors to think twice about traversing its ghostly halls.

When we finally arrive at room 509, I’m co
mpletely winded from chasing Aimee. An orange sign hanging over the door reads “contact precautions.” Pausing to locate a gown and gloves, I’m unable to prevent Aimee from bounding into the room.

“Don’t forget your gown….,”
I call after her, barely able to get the words out.

Since my alveoli are still having difficulty accomplishing basic gas exchange, this seems like an excellent moment to catch my bre
ath. As I’m leaning over my knees, trying to recover, an angry-looking middle-aged woman whom I recognize as Aimee’s mother from the tennis picture storms out of the room.

“What on earth were you thinking, bringing her here?”
she yells.

At this juncture,
I can’t help noticing that the woman’s hands are tightly balled into fists, just below her very muscular forearms. Mrs. Santos looks like someone who works out a lot. Hopefully she’s not going to punch me. Suddenly I’m too afraid to say anything.

“Umm….”

“Well?” she demands, raising her fists to the level of her hips.

“I—
I’m sorry,” I say.

“You shou
ld be! Aimee was coughing when she woke up this morning. Do you realize what could happen if her father so much as catches a cold right now?”

She takes one
step closer to me, lowering her voice.

“Aimee’s father is a very sick man
. He’s practically dying.”

Her face is near enough
now that I can distinguish all the dilated blood vessels lining her bulging, bloodshot sclera.

“I know
. Aimee told me that already.”

The woman pauses for a moment, looking confused.

“She did?”

“Yeah, she did
. Are you surprised that she’s aware of what’s happening here?”

“What kind of
a question is that?” she asks, starting to look angry again.

Uh,
oh.

“Who are you, anyway
? No, wait….”

Mrs. Santos
holds up her hand, shaking her short, dark, curly hair.

“I know who you are
. You’re Emma, right? The tutor? Maria told me you were taking Aimee out of the apartment.”

“Right.”

“She said that you were taking her to your office, to work on practice tests.”

“Oh, yeah…
I’m sorry about that. Aimee lied about where we were going, but I didn’t realize she was lying until later, since I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“Well, Emma…a
s of right now, you’re fired.”

She spins on h
er heel, turning back toward the room.

“Wait!”
I call after her.

Aimee’s mother
turns around again, looking exasperated.

“What do you want
?” she asks.

“I had to bring her here,” I say
. “It was the only way to convince her to do her schoolwork.”

As Mrs. Santos stares at me, her fists relax ever so slightly, and I plunge ahead
.

“I’m sure that Aimee
hasn’t been doing her homework to get your attention. She misses you. Do you know that she’s been scratching her arms—on purpose—because she’s been so upset about being left alone at home?”

“She’s…
hurting…herself?” whispers Mrs. Santos, leaning against the wall, as though needing support.

The remaining color in her already pale face
fades away. I hope she isn’t going to faint.

“Yeah
. I noticed the marks on her arms last week.”

“Why would she do that
?”

“I think
to make herself feel better.”

Mrs. Santos
bends her knees and slides her back down the wall, until she’s almost sitting on the floor.

“She
really misses you and her dad.”

Glancing
toward the hospital room, Aimee’s mother says, “This isn’t the way I wanted her to remember her father. I’ve been keeping Aimee at home to protect her from all of this sickness...and death.”

“Look,
I’m not a family member or anything, and I know I’ve only spent a little time with Aimee, so forgive me for being so forward. But from what I’ve seen over the past two weeks, I think that keeping Aimee cooped up at your apartment is worse for her than being here. Why not let her stay at the hospital, so long as she promises to do her work?”

“I don’t know,” she replies
. “This is a very difficult time for our family, and I’m having trouble thinking straight right now.”

“What about the tutoring
? Am I still fired?”

Mrs. Santos stands up, shrugs,
and shakes her head indecisively. Then she turns back toward the doorway leading into room 509.

As she disa
ppears inside, I can’t help peering over her shoulder. In the poorly lit space, small details are difficult to distinguish, but I can see that Aimee is lying in bed with her father. One of her arms is draped protectively over his skeletally thin torso, and their faces are pressed together, cheek to cheek. I can just make out the soft sound of her crying.

Taking a few steps backward, I inhale deeply and turn toward the elevator
. To my surprise, when I finally escape from Memorial into the sunshine of the afternoon, the sweet smell of spring is in the air. I hadn’t noticed it on the kamikaze journey uptown, but dogwood, magnolia, and cherry blossoms are bursting open on every street corner. The heady aromas and brightly-colored flowers are a healing balm following the gloomy darkness of the cancer hospital, innervating my senses as I begin walking home.

Then m
y feet stop moving. It suddenly occurs to me that while time has stalled in room 509, outside the seasons are changing, and Mother Nature couldn’t care less about all the suffering patients stuck inside the hospital. Despite all the terrible things happening to Aimee and her family, spring has arrived. The contrast is surreal and confusing. The vicissitudes of human life seem so random, and utterly cold. Though it feels unfair, I suppose it’s a good thing that the Earth keeps spinning, despite all the problems that humans are forced to deal with on a daily basis.

Walking more slowly now, enjoying the warm, afternoon
sunlight on my face, I recall a trip that my family took many years ago, when I was about Aimee’s age. One summer my parents rented a cottage on the North Fork of Long Island. Situated on the banks of a creek that flowed into the ocean, the location was great for watching sea birds sail over the water and tiny hermit crabs scuttle across the sand. After spending the day kayaking and enjoying the bountiful wildlife, the three of us sat together on a little dock behind the cottage, watching the sun descend. Facing westward, we had a perfect view of the sunset. As the sun hit the horizon, a few fluffy cumulus clouds hovering on the edge of the sky projected a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors.

“Now there’s an example of why you don’t have to go to Hawaii t
o see a great sunset,” said my dad.

“It’s so pretty,” I agreed,
amazed by the red, orange, and yellow hues emblazoning the atmosphere. “What do you think, Mom? Is it the best one you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s definitely up there
,” she said. “And I agree with your dad. You don’t have to travel far to see some incredible sunsets.”

“Is that what
the rabbi was talking about, when he said that you can see God all around us?” I asked.

“You
mean during his sermon at temple last week?” said my dad.

My m
om hadn’t come with us that evening, since she rarely attended synagogue.

“Yeah.
The one where he talked about God, and all of that stuff about nature.”

“
I think this is the perfect example of what he was trying to say.”

“Larry, with all due respect,” said my mother, “I think you should be careful about giving E
mma those types of ideas.”

“What type
s of ideas?” I asked.

“Yeah, what types
of ideas?” he repeated, looking curiously at my mom.

“The type
s of ideas where you start chalking everything up to God.”

“Why
?” he asked.

“
Because they’re misleading,” she said.

“How so?”
said my dad.

“
People are always attributing natural phenomena to God. Take my Aunt Millie, for instance. If a baby was born with a birth defect, she’d say something like, ‘Too bad, it must’ve been God’s will;’ instead of, ‘That woman really shouldn’t have taken thalidomide during her pregnancy.’” 

“But Cecile, sunsets and birth defects are two different…”

“Or, if a tree fell through somebody’s roof, she’d say, ‘God must’ve been angry with them;’ instead of, ‘They should’ve taken down that rotten old tree years ago.’”

“Don’t you believe in God, Mom?” I asked.

“When it comes to God, I’m not sure what to believe. But I’ll tell you what I do believe in,” she said, moving closer to me on the dock.

“What?” I asked.

“I believe in people. I believe in you, Emma,” she said, putting her arm around me, “and your father. I believe that to some degree—not totally, mind you—but to some degree, we all have the power to control what happens to us, and the world around us.”

“But why don’t you believe in God?”

“Remember, I said I’m not sure what I believe about God, not that I’m a complete atheist. Keep in mind that I’ve worked as a chemist for nearly twenty years. If nothing else, working as a scientist for a very long time has taught me one important lesson.”

“What’s that?” I asked, leaning my head against her shoulder.

“That most ideas—even ideas that sound perfectly reasonable—fall apart without hard evidence, or proof,” she said. “Believing in God, on the other hand, has nothing to do with scientific evidence; believing in God has everything to do with faith.”

“But
when you’re looking at the ocean, or a beautiful sunset, don’t you sense that there must be a higher power, or some grand design to the universe?” asked my dad, gesturing toward the sky.

“If by ‘higher power’ you’re referring to the big bang theory, then sure
. Otherwise, not particularly,” said my mom.

“But isn’t that a scary way to look at things?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” said my mother.

“Well, if there’s no God, then what happens to us
when we die? Do people just disappear, forever?”

“I’m
not sure, honey,” said my mom. “No one knows what happens to us when we die. But yes, I think that disappearing forever is a very real possibility.”

“Cecile,” my d
ad jumped in, “how can you say that to Emma? You’re going to give her nightmares, or some kind of death complex.”

“You can’t go wrong telling the truth, Larry, and I’m jus
t being honest about my opinions. Believe me, the world would be a better place if more people felt the way I do.”

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying that most of the time, religion does more harm than good. Look at all the people who’ve committed murder in the name of God, or religion in general. Religious fanatics think that killing innocent people will get them a ticket to some exalted afterlife, so they don’t care about wreaking havoc on earth. Honestly, the world would be a better place if people didn’t believe in God, or the devil, or any of that ridiculous nonsense. In fact, if I were God, I wouldn’t want people worshipping me at all.”